


The Phantom and The Ballerina

by reveriestuck



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Ballet, Cold War Era, Dark Fantasy, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, F/M, christine is a ballet dancer, dream walking, lawful evil alignment, loosely based on phantom, mentioned raoul/christine, seriously its loosely based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveriestuck/pseuds/reveriestuck
Summary: The world crumbled...It wasn’t as chaotic as you would think. None of the whole will it end in fire or ice? T.S Elliot had it right; it won’t end in a bang but in a whimper.Everyone lives in their own world; each individual consciousness is it's own.“Everyone dies alone.” Is the common saying, what people often forget is that everyone lives alone too. Their paths cross another’s for a moment and then they split off, each individual on their own timeline.So when a story opens up with the phrase “ the world crumbled” one might forget to ask a crucial question, “who’s world did it belong to?”





	1. In dreams he came

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so this is a work that I'm just dumping here.
> 
> Started off as a word writing prompt "the letter", then halfway through I realized I was writing Phantom fanfic so I changed the names and continued as if it was supposed to be a fic all alone.
> 
> Phantom of the Opera fic but the completely different universe, if anything this is based on phantom I'm not sure if some of you will consider this a fic because it's so canon divergent.  
> Christine is a ballet dancer, not a singer in this one and it's a little OOC. Well... A lot OOC.
> 
> Also AO3 screwed up the formatting and im trying to figure out how to fix it...

The king had once sold his soul to the arts. Or so it was rumoured. In exchange for such beauty he would feel no love for anything but. And from him his beauty was taken, to ensure that he would be loved for nothing but.

 

“These are going to last a few more hours at best then they’re dead. It’s the third pair I’ve burned through this week.” Christine complained dropping down onto the floor of her dressing room and pulling off her pointes shoes.  
Out in the studio the opening bars to the second act of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” began. It was audition season in the Bolshoi theatre, a time that Christine deeply wished would just be over.  
“It is what it is.” Meg replied tossing a roll of tape to her.  
“It’s deadly that’s what it is.” Christine said dryly just managing to catch what was thrown at her.  
Flexing her ankles the sounds of joints popping filled the room. She needed to re wrap her toes. They tore open again during her warm-up, she was used to pushing past the pain but her audition was in a few minutes and she needed to be in her best form. What was going on between the ballerinas was similar to their relations with the States.  
Christine voiced this to Meg who raised an eyebrow, “Please, the war is much less physically taxing than what we go though.” She responded in mock seriousness.  
To this Christine didn’t respond. She was waiting for Raoul, to come home. He had left thirteen months ago on some mission that the KGB had assigned to him, since then the ballerina had received no word as to if her lover was still alive.  
Raoul usually sent letters to her, albeit illegally, but they had developed a system. Christine insisted on having contact with him after he came back once covered in bruises and half of his body covered in stitches.  
‘It was my mistake’ Raoul had insisted, I got caught, I escaped. His loyalty to their country unsettled her. 

Objectively she knew that everything she was permitted to do, the ballet training she received all came from Mother Russia and that in return she must devote her life to the USSR’s cause. But the country that has given her so much was also the reason she had nothing to begin with. Her father had died, thy only family she had. The state refused to expend precious resources on a mere violinist. At the age of seven the newly orphaned Christine was taken into the Bolshoi theatre and was told that Mother Russia raised her. 

Christine finished wrapping her toes and tossed the old bloodied tape aside. It was time for her audition. This was the first time she would be rallying for the lead role, their old Prima had retired and the role of Tatiana was up for the taking. 

Where was Raoul? Why didn’t he send her anything?

_Opening chords, run out from the wings._

_Pirouette,  
Passé, Passé, Glissade- Assemblée._

Screw the Soviet Union for pushing production of things that the country didn’t need.  
She missed her papa.

_Glissade, Pas de Chat_

She didn’t want to be Christine.  
She wasn’t Christine.  
She wasn’t a weak girl who had no say in the world.  
The music picked up, her blisters popped open.  
She didn’t feel it. Was she still here?

_Fouette FouetteFouetteFouette_  
Grande Jeté  
Where was Raoul?  
Who was Raoul?

The music came to an end and with it Christine snapped back to herself. She couldn’t remember how she did. Looking out at the judges their expressions was blank. ‘I’ve screwed it up. Never loose focus. That was the first thing they taught me.’  
She was probably going to be stuck as a second Soloist until her retirement. Most girls rarely made it out of the crops, but Christine wanted the stage to be hers. After all, without her parents, without Raoul who was she if not the ballet? She trained here and lived here, it was in her blood, in her bones, and if she believed that she had one, her soul.  
Dropping her finishing pose she turned her gaze out to the empty theatre. It was strange seeing it so barren. 

It wasn’t empty. Up in one of the boxes there was a man standing there, hidden in the shadows, a manic grin on his face his gold eyes burned.

 

It was empty there was no one in the box.

‘This is what happens when you don’t sleep.’

Walking back to her dressing room Christine ignored the questions thrown at her by the other girls. They sensed that something was off, like sharks with blood in the water.  
They wanted to tear her down.  
But you can’t break something that’s always been broken.

The adrenaline wore off and Christine no longer felt invincible. She felt painfully human. Letting out a hiss of pain as she took off her shoes and peeled back the tape she had applied earlier. The blood had stuck it to her skin, tugging with a little more force she managed to get it off, reopening the wounds that had begun to scab over.  
It was always worth it though.  
The transcendence of one’s self in exchange for the body, mind, and soul.

“-Tine, Christine, Christine Daae.”  
Christine blinked out of her reverie, Meg who had been trying to get her attention since she walked in looked annoyed.

“Yeah?” Christine snapped irritated. She expected the other girls to be pests but Meg usually let her be. It was one of the reasons that the older girl was one of her few friends.

“Don’t be a bitch cause you messed up.” Meg dropped a sealed envelope into Christine’s lap. 

Raoul.  
With mumbled thanks she picked up the envelope and turned it over. A Wax seal held it shut.  
‘Why is he sending things like it’s the 1800s?” She didn’t dwell on it though. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year, he could have sent a bloody pigeon and she would have taken it.

Sliding her finger under the tab she opened it. The smell of frost flooded her senses.

It wasn’t Raoul.  
__  
My Prima,  
You are, simply put, a visionary to behold.  
You transcended the stage today my dear.  
The role of Tatiana surely shall be yours; they would be fools to cast anyone else.  
For a moment I thought you were one of us. A changeling, but the dance ended and I was reminded that it was impossible.  
I hope the gift is to your liking.

_I remain your most obedient servant.  
OG. _

Christine flipped the letter over. No other markings were to be found on the cream paper. She counted though the phrases, selecting each seventh word. The code she and Raoul had developed. Nothing. It wasn’t him.  
Why did this OG send such a letter?  
She had just gotten off the stage, how had he managed to write this.

“Oh this came with it.” Meg had reappeared at her side and held out a package. It was a box just larger than her hand.  
“Did you see who left this?” Christine asked putting the box in her bag. She would open it at home. The other ballerinas were not so subtly eavesdropping on what was going on.  
Meg furrowed her brow. “I did but I can’t really remember who it was. Mus have been a Phantom”  
Christine gestured for her to go on.  
“I don’t know how to explain. Its just the stress, I forget things. Chill out. What’s in that letter that has you so freaked out?” Meg asked. As much as she kept to herself curiosity got the better of her.

“Nothing.” Christine responded standing up. At Meg’s disbelieving look she added, “It’s just been a stressful day.”  
“Fine keep your secret and your mystery Phantom man.” Meg conceded. “No point in trying to pressure it out of you.”  
Christine offered her a weak smile and left trying her best to ignore the whispers that followed her as she left.

Why did she let go during the audition? The expressionless faces of the judges were seared into her mind. Would she just have to stay where she is in the company. She should be happy.  
She wanted more.  
Who the hell was the Phantom? Why did he send her that letter?  
Stepping out into the rain she bit back a frustrated scream, ballet was the one aspect of her life she could control.  
You train, you get better, you get a role.  
She has no control.

By the time Christine got home she was drenched and miserable.  
While waiting for the tub to fill up she took out both letter and box. Re-reading the letter didn’t give her any more information.

She still had no idea who the Phantom was, or how he was watching her. The theatre was empty. And the smell of Frost still lingered.  
Setting the letter aside she opened the box. Inside lay a North Star pendant on a thin chain. It was beautiful, simple- but beautiful.  
Set in black metal were dozens of gleaming stones. The necklace looked as if it had been plucked out of the night sky itself and strung on a chain.  
Taking it out of the box Christine puzzled at the weight. It was much heavier than she expected. Far too heavy for such a small object. The star was roughly the size of a coin.  
The chain felt like liquid between her fingers.  
Who the hell was the Phantom?  
Hesitating for a moment Christine unclasped it and fastened it around her neck. It settled just underneath the hollow of her neck.  
Beautiful, she thought.

The bath was full.

Stripping down Christine took everything off but the necklace. She didn’t want to part with it yet, it felt- wrong.  
Lowering herself into the bath she felt all the aches of that week’s practices.  
Her feet were bloody her muscles were sore and her left knee throbbed from when her partner dropped her during one of their lifts.  
Soon though she began to feel better, the hot water eased the pain and drew out the tension that she was holding.

After just existing in the water for a while Christine began the actual task of washing herself. Her hair, not blonde, not anymore the harsh world had bleached it white, looked nearly transparent when wet and bruises made more stark and violent by her paleness. They looked like galaxies blooming under her skin.  
She felt unsettled, and it was only after she had stepped out of the bath that she realized why. The necklace was still cold to touch. But the water had been just short of boiling.  
In her hurry to get the necklace off a few strands of hair were ripped out, but she didn’t really feel it.  
Holding the necklace in her hand she lowered it into the still hot water of the bath.  
Nothing.

The necklace was still cold.

“I need sleep. I will deal with this after I sleep.” She decided slipping the necklace over her head again.  
Doing so probably wasn’t the best of ideas. But she was already attached to the object.

Crawling under the covers Christine buried her face in Raoul’s pillow. A year had passed and his scent faded to almost nothing. She missed him.  
__  
Christine was standing on a frozen lake. Barefoot. Up to her ankles in mist.  
There was music playing the background  
Softly  
An unknown melody  
She was wearing her pointe shoes.  
The mist was steadily rising.  
Phantom fingers grazed the back of her neck, gently, cautiously.

 _What the hell was happening?_  
She turned around.  
The touch was gone.  
The music cut off abruptly.  
  
Christine woke covered in a thin sheen of sweat restrained.  
No, wait she wasn’t being tied down. Her body had become tangled in the sheets and her hair had come free of its braid and had wrapped itself around her neck.  
Breathing heavily she just lay there for a moment. The dream had already faded. But the sense of unease remained. 

Once the ballerina managed to calm herself down she quietly walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea  
The sun was starting to come up.  
Nearly two hours till she had to go to the studio, no point in going back to sleep then, Christine decided.  
As she raked her fingers through her hair, re-braiding it the light began to filter through the window. The rays making her hair glow pale gold. Blonde as it ought to have been.  
Beautiful, she thought. 

Christine was beautiful.  
Not lovely, she never was lovely. The usual softness than one associated with prettiness was never hers, her features too sharp and overly polished.  
Cheekbones that cut harsh lines in her faced, fingers that were bony and long.  
Eyes that were darker than a starless night. And as unforgiving as one too.  
No colour graced her features but the blue of her veins, and the purple of bruises that decorated her feet.  
And strangely enough, the dark red of her lips.  
A slash of colour, almost bloody, out of place on Christine’s colourless visage.

Never that girlish prettiness, or womanly charm.  
But she was beautiful in the way a shards of ice were.  
Christine was not to be associated with the warmth and sunshine of summer, the flowers and song of spring, or even the smoky feel of autumn.  
Christine was born of winter, of frost and snow.  
Christine was beautiful.

 

In spite of her nightmare, if one could call it that. The world felt still. She could almost forget her screw-ups in the company, Raoul being gone, the damned Americans for pushing their country to this state, and Russia for having taken everything from her. Almost, but not quite, never quite enough.  
The rays of the sun were getting stronger. They were banishing the chill of her dreams.

Christine let out an involuntary shiver. The back of her neck tingled as if snow had fallen on it. Reaching to rub at the spot she remembered that the necklace was still around her neck.  
It remained cold to touch.

The apartment was cold. They must have cut off the heating. They were lowering rations again.  
Six months ago they were allowed eighteen hours of electricity and heating.  
Then they cut it to thirteen.  
Nine.  
Last month they cut it down to six.  
By how much did they restrict it now?

What else would be taken from her?

Christine s home was cold.  
Her dream left a chill in her bones.

She wanted to know more. She wanted to forget it all.  
She wanted Raoul to come home.  
She wanted the principal role.  
She wanted to bottle up the sunlight and carry it around.

Christine was twenty years old. As beautiful and sharp as a glass edge, as fragile as one too.

A cloud passed over the sun. The light dimmed. The world wasn’t still anymore.  
Christine’s hair was white again. Christine was still cold.

She had about half of her tea left in the mug. That had gone cold too. She set it on top of a worn paperback novel. She’ll wash the mug later.

Might as well get to the studio early. If she wanted to rise she needed to work.

 

Christine didn’t get the role of Tatiana. But she didn’t get demoted to the corps either.  
She had a minor solo role, one of the fairies.  
Well Phantom, seems like you’ve put me on a pedestal. They haven’t cast me in a supporting role either.  
She thought bitterly as she went through her warm-up sequence.  
It was probably one of the other girls mocking her, or even one of the males who was trying to get her attention.  
There were plenty of them.  
Hopeful males who thought that underneath her icy exterior lay a soft and loving heart.  
They were wrong.  
Even in the way that she loved, Christine was fierce and cold.  
She wanted to tell them about Raoul to be rid of them bothering her.  
She couldn’t tell them about Raoul, the KGB forbade it.  
She wanted to scream.

All she could do was dance.  
The necklace lay at the hollow of her neck underneath her leotard.  
Time to learn the choreography.

Three days later Christine stayed behind after everyone had left.  
It was a full moon and there was no need for her to keep the lights on, not that she could. The government cuts the electricity in the studio after working hours.  
She didn’t need the light.  
Standing on the stage in the empty theatre it all looked black and white with nothing but the moon for illumination.  
She stood there for a moment.  
Then she began to dance.  
_Pirouette,  
Passé, Glissade, passé_

There was no music but she recalled snatches of that half forgotten melody that she heard in her dream.  
_Glissade,_  
Fouette,  
Pas de bourré

Christine danced with no one but the shadows as her partners.  
_Assemblée, Pirouette, Developpeé_

Christine danced until she couldn’t anymore.  
_Penché,  
Altitude, fouette_

She danced until she wasn’t Christine.  
_Echapee,  
Glissade._

 

The broken melody faded from her mind and she stopped.  
Breathing heavily, shoulders heaving Christine remained at the edge of the stage.  
The moon was still providing light.  
The shadows didn’t look menacing instead they looked otherworldly.  
They seemed to be moving with a life of their own.  
Christine was tired.

She missed the masked figure standing up in the box looking down at her.  
She did not miss the single rose that fluttered down on stage. It too looked monochromatic in the dim lighting.  
She pricked her finger on one of the thorns.  
A drop of blood fell to the floor, a spot of read on a square of white.  
The theatre was still empty.  
I’m going insane. She thought.

Another letter awaited her. This time it was placed on top of her bag.  
Breaking the wax seal the smell of frost washed over her, just as it did with the first letter.  
It read,

 

__

My Prima,  
Otherworldly beauty,  
Unlike no other. I see that they have not cast you in the role that you were born for. You are good, this you know.  
However if you wish to excel, I will gladly be of assistance.  
I am glad that you found my gift worthy.  
It gives me great pleasure to see you wearing it.  
You dance for thousands,  
For your lover,  
To forget yourself.  
It is my deepest desire that one day you will find yourself dancing for me.

I remain your most Obedient servant,  
OG 

 

Was he mocking her? Christine though irritated.  
Clearly he knew she wasn’t chosen for a lead role and was rubbing it in.  
A kernel of anger nestled in her heart.  
She would be the next prima.  
No one would mock her then.  
She will train harder and put herself through hell to get there.


	2. Softly Deftly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be of varying lengths depending.  
> This is because I wrote it as a oneshot but decided to split it for aesthetic purpouses.

Three months passed and Christine did just that.  
Living like clockwork for that time.  
Go to the studio, work on the choreography. Go home, sleep, repeat.

Raoul still hadn’t come home.  
The Phantom had left her three more letters all of the same adoring nature.  
She still wore the necklace.  
It was always cold.  
She kept having strange dreams.  
_  
Christine was on the lake again wearing her pointe shoes. ___

___This had become common,_  
After the fourth time she had accepted it.  
After the seventh she had come to enjoy it.  
After the thirteenth she learned his name, Erik. 

___The music was back, still unknown to her but familiar. The mist was no longer cold and imposing but felt like silk against her skin.__ _

___She felt fingers brush the back of her neck. Leaning into the touch she allowed the unknown figure guide her movements._ _ _

__In her dreams she danced._ _

___“Again, this time sharper on the transitions.” A voice instructed. It sounded like night made manifest, dark, seductive, and cruel.__ _

___Christine began again, with sharper transitions._ _ _

___In her dreams the voice coached her._  
In her dreams the voice seduced her.  
_“You have done well, you are nearly ready my prima.”_  
Cool hands slid down her shoulders. Around her waist, pulling her to him.  
The mist rose, she reached out with her hand in front of her, she couldn’t see past her wrist the mist had become so thick.  
The figure behind her laced one of his hands into her outstretched one.  
She felt cold lips on the back of her neck. 

___She wasn’t Christine anymore.  
She was only His._ _ _

_____It was like standing on the edge of a cliff._  
Where you were terrified to go over the edge.  
Where you craved the fall.  
Christine jumped,  
And all that existed was Him. 

__Christine woke up tangled in the sheets again. Running her hands through her hair she rested her face in her palms and tried to get her breathing under control._ _

___The nights spent dreaming left her in a state of perpetual exhaustion._  
The days spent in the studio were draining.  
But when she was asleep she felt alive.  
When she was with him she felt inhuman.  
When she awoke she forgot her dreams.  
When she awoke she felt alone. 

___Christine had become a better dancer. The others had noticed, her choreographer did too; there was talk behind her back._  
Christine was sleeping with the director for extra lessons.  
Christine was taking illegal medication to be stronger.  
Christine had killed other ballerinas and bathed in their blood to take in their talent. 

___The last one she found entertaining. There was some creativity needed for one to believe such a thing. The others rumours were mere irritations._  
Christine knew her worth.  
She was becoming better through her own merit and work.  
Her progress was her’s and her’s alone. 

___Lost in thought she sat down and got ready to put on her pointe shoes when a loud bang was heard. With a start Christine dropped one of her shoes and a piece of glass fell to the ground with a soft, ‘clink’._  
Picking it up she cautiously probed two fingers into the box of the shoe, it was filled with broken glass. The other shoe was too.  
Christine was not frightened,  
She was shocked.  
Then she was angry.  
Had one of the girls felt so threatened by her that they put shards of glass into her Pointes to stop her from dancing?  
The answer was obvious.  
Instead of working their way to the top some tried to take down those higher up.  
Cowards,  
Weaklings. 

___Christine stood up and cleaned out her shoes. No point in telling the producers about it. She would be labelled as a ‘problematic’ who would make it harder to get roles in the future._  
She had to be more careful from now on.  
She would eventually get the lead role.  
She was Christine Daae; people would eventually never forget her name. 

__Halfway through rehearsals a bloodcurdling scream was let out. The ballerinas were urged to keep practicing as Madame Giry went to see what was going on._ _

__No one was told anything. But by the end of the day everyone already knew what had happened.  
The understudy, Carlotta had glass put into her pointe shoes. She needed stitches and was unable to dance for the rest of the season. A new solo role had just been opened up._ _

__She decided to stay behind again to dance on the empty stage. Going inside the dressing room to grab more pins for her hair, her bun had come loose; she noticed a new letter on top of her bag._ _

___This was the Fourteenth letter she had gotten from her Phantom. They no longer scared her; instead she had come to think of him as her friend._  
The smell of frost was now beginning to feel more and more like home to her.  
__  
My Prima,  
That untalented fraud attempted to push you out of the company.  
She put glass in your Pointes to stop you from dancing.  
Your progress has not gone unnoticed by the higher management and Miss Markova felt threatened.  
What goes around comes around.  
After making sure that you would not be harmed I gave her the treatment that would have befallen you.  
Miss Markova will not dance in this production of A Midsummer’s Night’s dream.  
See to it that you get her role.  
After all, our training has not been for naught has it?  
I remain your most obedient servant,  
OG  
  
Christine put the letter down and shakily lowered herself into a chair. Carlotta had tried to stop her from dancing. The Phantom was the figure in her dreams. The Phantom- Erik has protected her.  
Taking in a deep breath to centre herself again Christine slowly got back to her feet. Fixed her hair and went to the stage.  
He protected her. He had caused the bang that led her to discovering the glass in her shoes. He punished Carlotta justly.  
Everyone knew that Carlotta had only gotten her role by sleeping with the Choreographer, Andrei.  
Erik was there for her when no one else was.  
Raoul hasn’t come home.  
The government decreased the amount of food stamps.  
Christine had gotten thinner. Her ribs were getting more pronounced. The muscle she was building was being burned away.  
She was looking less human every day. 

__

___Taking a starting pose Christine breathed out slowly._  
And began to dance.  
Except this time,  
This time,  
She danced for Him.  
She was no longer dancing for the Bolshoi.  
For Raoul  
For her father  
To forget herself.  
She was dancing for The Phantom, for Erik.  
And in that moment she wasn’t human.  
Christine wasn’t bruised and battered. Her bones didn’t ache. Her skin wasn’t tender.  
Everything and nothing.  
Shadow come to life.  
And she was glorious.  
But she was Christine. 

__

__

__Forcing herself to stay in her body she refused to dissociate as she often found herself doing during these late night rehearsals.  
For the first time in a while she actually wanted to be Christine. This was her gift to him._ _

___The moon was hidden by the shadows and with it the light disappeared. But still she continued. The moves were ingrained into the very core of her being._  
She often joked that she could perform on the stage blindfolded. And now she practically was.  
This time she danced a fast piece, a passionate one, and an angry one. It was different to the other more restrained ones that she had performed on the abandoned stage.  
But she found herself tiring rapidly.  
She couldn’t stop.  
She didn’t want to stop. 

__The shadow moved._ _

__Christine crumpled to the floor._ _

__‘Christine’ a voice whispered_ _

___The owner of that voice picked Christine up._  
The smell of frost, of winter, invaded her mind.  
She was placed on a surface, her bed.  
The arms that were holding her retracted.  
She wanted them to stay.  
It wasn’t Raoul, Raoul was warm, and Raoul smelled of cut grass and summertime.  
Leather clad hands gently brushed her face and through her hair.  
‘Christine.’ 

__She woke up in her bed at home._ _

___Sitting up Christine pushed her hair off her face._  
It was tangled again and had gotten much longer. Her first though was that she should cut it to a more manageable length. Her next was one of confusion and fear.  
She was wearing unfamiliar clothes. A black swath of fabric that acted as a nightgown, silk, more glamorous that anything she ever could afford.  
Having no idea what happened the other night or how she got home the seed of panic that she was feeling began to grow stronger.  
Christine began to hyperventilate. Her hair falling in her face again. This time she was unable to get it all off her face.  
She felt like she was suffocating, overheating like a crab dropped into a pot and being boiled gradually.  
The apartment was freezing, but Christine felt heat, as if someone had turned the heating on in the middle of August.  
She couldn’t breathe  
Her chest hurt.  
Her vision began to loose focus. 

___A stab of pain hit her in the throat._  
The necklace she wore burned her.  
Letting out a hiss of pain Christine was shocked back into reality.  
With a trembling had she reached up to touch the necklace.  
It was too cold to properly touch, but it had warmed enough to not burn her skin anymore. She noted that its temperature was rapidly rising to one that obyed the laws of physics. 

___Running her fingers through her hair for the second time she successfully managed to untangle the mess.  
Working out the knots helped. The physical task grounding her and keeping her occupied for a moment.  
After having battled her mess into a long braid she took stock of her surroundings._

___She was in her room._  
The various sketches she had drawn were hung up on the walls with tape.  
Her spare pointe shoes were tied to the door handle, and a pile of her ballet clothes lay on top of the armchair.  
Piles of books, both worn and pristine ones were piled around the room.  
She always insisted her books be kept in perfect condition.  
Raoul would argue that books were meant to be a little roughed up; it showed that they were loved and had been read.  
Christine disagreed. This had been cause of a good number of arguments between the couple.  
Looking around at the disorderly room Christine reminded herself that cleaning was long overdue, and that she’d get to it in a moment. 

___Breathe, she reminded herself.  
She was home and safe.  
Right?_

___Bunching up the fabric of the nightgown in her hand she took a closer look at it. It wasn’t silk as she originally thought._  
The black fabric looked as if it were cut from the night sky, it was so light that she felt as if she were wearing nothing, but she wasn’t cold. The fabric was thin and loose but clung to her as if it, and its folds had been painted on.  
While the piece was beautiful it unsettled her, it was not until she got out of bed that she realized what gave her the feeling.  
The fabric didn’t reflect light where it should have; instead it seemed to absorb the light. Looking at herself in the mirror the nightgown gave off the illusion that it was a void, dark and empty. 

___Breathe, she reminded herself.  
She was home and safe.  
She had to be._

__Checking the clock that was hung up she took note of the time, five am.  
Practice had finished last night at around ten._ _

__Last night._ _

___Her memory came back to her._  
The glass in the pointe shoes.  
The rumours about her.  
Carlotta being unable to dance anymore.  
The Phantom had protected her, 

__The Phantom…_ _

___She remembered staying behind late.  
Dancing on the abandoned stage.  
A voice._

__That voice._ _

___Was it real?  
Did she dream it?  
She doubted that, what she was wearing and the fact that she had gotten home was proof of someone, or something having been there._

___Feeling no soreness and seeing no marks Christine assured herself that she had not been violated in any way last night._  
Logically speaking it wasn’t a certainty but she had a feeling.  
Christine was a cynical woman, and not disillusioned to the worse things in the world.  
So her trusting in The Phantom’s actions was not something she did lightly. 

___The faint smell of frost clung to her._  
he had brought her home.  
She had danced for him.  
She trusted him. 

___Looking at her reflection in the mirror again she noted that the dark circles under her eyes had gotten darker, and her skin paler, something that she thought to be impossible._  
Her cheekbones jutted out unnaturally sharp.  
Her red lips chapped and crusted with a touch of blood from when they cracked because of the cold.  
The veins under her skin criss-crossed, looking slightly more prominent than usual. The purple and blue veins forming patterns, not unlike the very patterns that lightning would take.  
The necklace rested in the hollow of her neck, glinting unfeelingly in the cold light of morning. 

__Turning away from her reflection Christine hunted around her room for her dance bag. Surely it was here somewhere._ _

___Going out into her living room she spotted it on the table next to the front door. It was as if someone had put it there to ensure that she did not leave home without it._  
‘Clever’ she thought dryly picking it up. Just underneath it was another letter.  
Leaving her bag as is, deciding that she’ll deal with it later, Christine put on the kettle and opened the letter.  
The smell of frost that lingered on her skin was overpowered by the frost that was released with the opening of the letter.  
She was used to it at this point.  
After having gone through the motions of preparing tealeaves she read the contents of the letter.  
_  
My Prima,_

_____You have no idea just how much happiness you have filled me with when you danced for me._  
In those moments you were more beautiful than ever, a feat I thought impossible.  
You did not dance for you’re absent lover, nor to forget yourself.  
You danced for me, a gift unlike anything I have ever received.  
For that I thank you.  
If you have not deduced by now I have returned you to your home safely.  
I have not violated your trust, or your person. On my honour and on the night I swear it.  
Your technique has improved, and I hope that we will continue our lessons in order for you to excel.  
I look forwards to seeing your progress. 

____I remain,__  
Your obedient servant.  
OG  
  
Christine smiled, the motion was slightly painful given the state of her lips.  
But she was content.  
The Phantom had looked out for her.  
He was there when no one was.  
He-  
Christine was cut off mid-thought when the kettle let out a screech letting her know that the water had boiled.  
Jumping slightly she grabbed a towel and hurried to pour out the water to stop that god-awful noise. 

__Fetching her bag and Returning to her room, letter in hand, Christine pulled a box out from under her bed._ _

__When she took off the lid the already strong smell of frost became overwhelming. Her entire apartment felt as if it had snowed inside.  
She found comfort in this though._ _

__Christine always preferred the cold; it was the risk of sickness that made her dislike the unforgiving Russian winters.  
But snow, and storms always relaxed her. Even as a child, when others would cry at the claps of lightning and hide under the covers Christine would smile from her spot by the window._ _

__Folding the letter carefully Christine dropped it with the rest of them. Then she pulled the one in her bag out and put it in the box as well.  
She now was in possession of seven letters._ _

__Christine put the box back under her bed, and then she finished her tea and got ready for practice._ _

___Taking off the silk nightgown she mourned the feeling of it on her skin. It was exquisite and by far the most comfortable thing she had ever worn, which was strange given its aesthetic appearance._  
Christine had long ago learned that with sleepwear, it was either beauty or comfort.  
When Raoul was home she often opted for the former, putting up with the scratchy lace and and thin fabric that left her shivering. After all, she had him to keep her warm.  
As he had been gone a long time Christine had neither use nor desire to wear the uncomfortable night things. 

__Hanging up the nightgown in her closet she ran her hand down the smooth fabric mournfully before shutting the door and then making her way to the studio.  
She had a long day ahead._ _

___Usually Christine was one of the first to arrive, but today it seemed like everyone had already begun they day’s work._  
Meg, who usually made it just before their training starting was also there.  
Upon seeing Christine’s shocked face she grinned and walked up to her comrade.  
“Surprised to see me here this early yes?” Meg stated more than she asked.  
“Yes.” Christine responded dumbly.  
Shaking her head in fondness Meg chuckled before explaining. “With Carlotta out of the production her solo role has just been opened up. And since she was the understudy that position is open too.” 

___Christine froze. She had forgotten about that. All that had gone through her mind relating to Carlotta and the ‘incident’ was the anger that Christine had felt upon learning that the older girl had tried to sabotage her. She had completely forgotten about the role._  
Realizing that Meg was awaiting a response Christine snapped to attention and smiled, “well, these things do happen. Do you know if auditions are to be held?” She asked.  
“As a matter of fact I do.” Meg’s smile settled into an expression of smugness. When Christine didn’t press further Meg sighed and continued slightly disappointed at her friend’s lack of reaction.  
“They’ve been watching us for a while now and there is no time to hold auditions. They’re going to hand out the role. That’s why everyone is here early. To show that they’re ‘serious workers.’ As we all don’t already know who slacks off and who’s here working themselves to the bone.”  
Christine was about to respond when Madame Giry called out her name.  
Telling her friend that they’ll meet up after class Christine hurried off to see what her instructor wanted. 


	3. Why so silent

Christine had gotten Carlotta’s role.  
Her improvement over the past months had not gone unnoticed, and they expected her progress to continue in such a manner.  
With a grim sense of satisfaction and determination Christine returned to where everyone else was practicing.  
She was slightly dazed as she begun her warm-up pliés.  
‘She was a first soloist now. She was the understudy for the lead role!’  
Her last thought before she seriously committed herself to the day’s practice was that she hoped The Phantom would be proud.

Christine was right.  
Another letter had appeared and with it.

Meg handed it to her with raised eyebrows. “The tall, dark, and mask your Phantom stopped by again and said to give this to you. I must say Christine, what on earth are you up to these days?” She asked perplexed.  
Christine smiled weakly and tucked the letter away.   
Meg wasn’t deterred though. She pressed for more information, “has he contacted you since auditions? Do you know who he is?”  
“I’ve never met him in my life.” Christine replied with a shrug. Technically she wasn’t lying. She never had met The Phantom in person.  
“He seemed awfully familiar when speaking about you.” Meg commented sceptically. Still, sensing that her friend wasn’t about to divulge any further information Meg backed off. “Congrats on the role by the way. I don’t know how you managed to get so much better so quickly, but you deserve it.” She conceded.  
It was Christine’s turn to raise her eyebrows. Meg’s praise did not come lightly as Madame Giry’s daughter she too had standards as high as that of the ballet mistress.  
Thanking her friend with a genuine smile Christine went back to practice.

It was a long day.  
She had gone through another pair of pointe shoes.   
New blisters formed while the old ones popped.  
But the events made it worth it.  
She had risen in rank.  
The Phantom had given her another letter.  
The letter was short, expressing his pride and respect for her.  
He rarely contacted her this often.  
She was happy.

Once at home after having taken a much needed shower Christine put on the nightgown that she wore that morning and all but collapsed into bed.  
And as she slept, she dreamt.  
 _  
She was being trained again.  
The hypnotic voice barking instructions at her.   
His voice was unyielding, commanding, like steel.  
She obeyed without question.  
When she made a mistake he did not yell at her.  
He merely corrected her form, and told her to start again.  
So she did.  
Again,   
And again,  
And again.  
Over and over and over.  
The same routine.   
Different routines.  
On the frozen lake, surrounded by nothing but mist, a fractured melody, and her desperation, he taught her._

_‘Christine’ his voice whispered.  
She continued the dance, barely faltering.  
He never called her by her name during the dreams.  
‘Christine’ the voice repeated, stronger but just as soft._

_The dream changed.  
The mist turned into tendrils of shadow.  
The lake beneath her turned into the night sky._

_‘Christine’ he was standing behind her.  
She felt a hand cup the lower part of her face while the other settled on her hip.  
Relaxing as she leaned into his touch she allowed him to hold her.  
Everywhere he touched burned cold.  
Everywhere he touched she craved more.  
It wasn’t enough.  
It was never enough.  
These dreams were a phantom image of what was,  
Of what could be,  
Of what he promised her.  
She allowed herself to be consumed,  
Nothing mattered,  
The music played louder, still fractured but prominent.  
He was all that mattered,  
The Phantom- Erik was all that mattered,  
He was all that existed.  
Erik’, his name escaped her lips as he took her.  
She belonged to him.  
Turning around to kiss him she grasped the edges of the mask that covered his face.  
She wanted to kiss him properly.  
She wanted to see what was her’s.  
She pulled off the mask.  
And she saw-   
_

 

Christine jerked awake. Usually the dreams faded into distant memories almost as soon as she woke up.  
The training that they went through remained in her muscle memory and the back of her consciousness.  
This time however it was branded into her mind.  
She remembered it all.  
His voice,  
The music,  
His touch,  
The shadows.  
His face.  
Those eyes.

The smell of frost was prominent in her room. Blisters and bruises that weren’t there when she fell asleep had formed on her feet.  
She couldn’t tell what was dream and what was reality.  
It was Erik Of that she was certain.  
He came to her in sleep, trained and worshipped her.  
For a moment it seemed as if the room were filled with mist.  
She blinked.  
It was filled with shadows, dancing.  
Closing her eyes she tried to get a grip on herself.

Was she awake now?   
Who was she?  
Who was he?  
Why was he doing this?

The necklace on her neck was cold, assuring her that she was.

Christine let out a scream and ripped the necklace from her neck.  
Then she ripped the nightgown from her body and threw it to the floor.  
Sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but her underwear she gripped the pendant tightly in one hand, digging the fingers of her other hand into her thigh. Tears were leaking out of her eyes and she began to sob

 

Christine let out another scream; it was less feral than before.   
She let out a third scream but this time it came out as merely a whimper.  
Tears were running down her face as she hunched hover, still sitting on the side of the bed.

What was she doing?  
Why was she doing this?  
What is happening to her?

Christine felt as if she was loosing her mind.

It seemed like an age had passed.  
It seemed like no time at all had passed.  
Christine opened her eyes. The light in the room burning them painfully.  
She forced herself to keep them open.  
The tears had stopped but her breath was still shaky.

With a trembling hand she opened up her fist. The necklace had left lines in her hand, branding its shape from having gripped it too tightly.  
Holding it in the palm of her hand the necklace was warm and glinted innocently.  
It was just as beautiful as it had been four months ago.  
For the first time since he had gifted it to her she had taken it off.  
It was warm.  
It never was warm.  
For the first time since she put it on it was warm to touch.  
Was the coldness just an illusion?  
Another part of her brain that was playing tricks on her.

Releasing her grip on her thigh thin cresent shaped wounds began to leak blood.  
She was awake,  
This was real.

Her entire body shaking Christine got up and retrieved the box full of letters. When she opened it there was no smell of frost.

‘Guess it finally happened’ she thought caustically, ‘my mind is as broken as my soul.’ Then a slightly more terrifying thought entered her mind, ‘when will my body break down as well?”

She had no one.  
Her parents were dead.  
Raoul abandoned her.  
She had no friends.  
The government was slowly taking away her provisions.  
She was alone.

A wave of nausea rolled over her as she dropped the necklace into the box and then after a moment’s hesitation the nightgown.   
The slippery black fabric seemed like liquid as it all but poured into the box.  
Putting the lid on she shoved it under her bed.

On shaky legs Christine stood up. Walked into the bathroom. Then promptly proceeded to throw up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A shadowed figure was standing in the wings of the theatre setting up for one of his plans. It was early enough in the morning to ensure that it would be empty.  
He was doing it all for her.  
She had the talent; she was getting her positions on her merit alone.  
But there were politics to this and she would only move up if there was a vacancy.  
Needing to take matters into his own hands he had come here to do just that.  
He loved her, and she had all but given herself completely to him.  
She had danced for him, dreamt of him,  
Called out his name.  
He was just about to finish his task when he felt it.  
Her rejection.  
Falling to his knees the figure let out a cry of pain.  
She had denied him.  
Betrayed him.  
The next cry the figure let out was not one of pain, but one of rage seasoned with despair.  
He gave her music,  
He gave her life,  
She cast him off.

 

 

 

 

Over the next few weeks Christine continued to train. She would stay late to practice but not once did she perform on the empty stage.

She felt hollow. She lost more weight. Amassed more bruises.  
Madame Giry commented on her appearance. Telling her that she looked like a villain in the stories told to children to keep them in line Christine promised that she would make an effort to look more like a human and less like a wraith.

She kept on practicing. No more letters appeared. At first Christine improved a little, then she stopped making progress.

Again Madame Giry had something to say on the matter. Christine had been getting better at an inhuman rate, and then all of a sudden it was as if someone had frozen her skill in time. She did not get worse, she did not get better. But her dancing was devoid of emotion.

While perfect technique was something that most ballerinas strove to achieve, it was technique and passion that made one a prima.  
Christine had managed to perfect technique over the past few months. But ever since that night, that dream, she was empty.  
Like a hollowed out doll.  
One who had learned to love her strings, only for them to be cut, leaving her perfect, but unmoving.  
Christine was alone.  
She trained alone.  
Went home alone.  
Fell asleep alone.

Raoul never sent any letters.   
The Phantom didn’t send any letters.  
Meg stopped trying to talk to her.  
Madame Giry continued to train her.  
Christine slept dreamlessly.

 

Late one evening Christine was the last one left in the studio. This had become common. She hated going home. The silence was deafening

It had been two years since Raoul was called away, two years since she last heard from him, that’s when it happened.  
Running though her performance piece for that was probably the thirteenth time that night she began to feel dizzy. Pushing through the discomfort she continued dancing, the floor rushed up to meet her and after feeling white hot pain it all went dark.

As she regained consciousness Christine’s head pulsed with pain. Trying to sit up in order to get her bearings she let out a cry of pain and collapsed back onto the ground. The movement sent a stab of pain through her side and made her headache flare up.   
So she just lay there, cold, in pain, and terrified.  
Fighting to keep consciousness Christine waited for the pain to lessen, it didn’t.  
Every movement caused a fresh wave of pain to crash over her.  
Her limbs grew numb from the cold not helping her situation.  
She missed feeling safe.  
She missed Erik  
Somehow she managed to roll onto her back. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling Christine began to cry silently. Tears rolled down on either side of her face, as she lay there unmoving.  
“Erik” she whimpered. Calling out his name for the first time since she had torn off his necklace.  
She missed the feeling of safety that he gave her.  
He was once her only companion. He had been hers.  
‘Erik” His name came out cracked, and lower than before.  
She was so cold.  
Her world had crumbled around her.

For the first time since she had torn off his necklace she smelt frost.  
In her delirious state Christine began to panic. She was loosing her mind.  
As her breathing picked up and her pain grew sharper a figure stepped out of the shadows.

‘Sleep my love’ the words came out gentle.  
And for the second time that day Christine lost consciousness.


	4. Him

He tried to keep away. She had been clear in her rejection of him and he respected her wishes. But he longed to see her dance once more. So he did. Watched her train.   
The sight of her dancing so emotionlessly tugged at his heartstrings.  
She had been full of rage, pain, and passion. All that was stripped away now.  
She became a shell of her former glory.  
It was his fault.  
His face.  
The infection that poisoned their love.  
It hurt to see her like this, Erik almost wanted to turn away but he forced himself to stay. It was his punishment, for destroying her.  
He loved her still, even when she was nothing but a broken doll going through the motions.  
He loved her still.  
And so, as he watched her waste away his heart continued to crack.  
His prima ballerina, his queen, being reduced to dust in the wind.  
And so when she collapsed it took every ounce of his control to not run to her.  
The Phantom did not exist. At least to Christine he couldn’t.  
So he remained in the shadows.  
Until she spoke his name, the second time she whispers it, although it came out nearly incomprehensible it was undoubtedly his name.  
Was she accepting him again?  
Erik would take anything she gave him.  
He had been begging for scraps as it was and nearly getting nothing in return.  
But for her he would do anything.  
He was her’s to command.   
So Erik allowed he to approach her and took her to her home.  
He would protect his ballerina.  
If she called him he would come.


	5. That voice which calls

Christine woke up with a splitting headache. Light hurt her eyes so she covered her face with her hands allowing herself to slowly adjust to the dim brightness of the room.   
Turning her face away from the window she spotted a glass of water and two little white pills on her nightstand.  
Recognizing the medicine as a painkiller from her cabinet she reached out and downed them with the water.  
Once they kicked in she began to feel better.  
Last night was a disaster.  
She remembered passing out and the pain she was in.  
She remembered calling out for her Phantom

He had come for her. A feeling burned through Christine. It took her while to place it as guilt. The emotion was practically alien to her.  
Yes she was guilty, guilty for casting him off and yet when she called he came.  
Erik had done nothing to wrong her; he cared for her when no one else did.  
It was the second time that he had protected her.  
She had turned on him in a moment of weakness and panic when faced with things she did not understand.  
Raoul was not coming back.  
Being honest with herself she now missed the idea of him rather than the man himself.  
He was good to her. He was kind. He even loved her.  
But Christine was cracked. Raoul had never accepted that. Erik had.  
Getting out of bed she winced as her side ached. Digging the box out from under the bed she pulled the necklace out. It was warm.  
Slipping it over her head again she grasped the star pendant. It was cold to touch.

She needed a bath.  
The water was warm and comforting. After having exhausted her ability to stay submerged in the tub Christine dried herself off. A horrific bruise covered her left shoulder and ribs from when she fell last night. When she sat down in front of the mirror to brush her hair she noted a cut on her cheekbone. The fall had split her skin open and bruised the area around it.   
Paired with her tried dark eyes that were ringed with even darker circles, her pale skin and white hair that contrasted with her dark red lips Christine looked like death herself.  
She felt like death.

For the first time in years Christine didn’t go to the studio.  
She stayed at home, napped, read her books, and ate a proper meal.  
She was tried.  
She missed her Phantom.  
He hadn’t given her a letter.  
Had he not forgiven her?  
Perhaps him taking care of her was an act of pity?  
She missed his presence in her dreams.

That night as she slept she woke up on the lake.  
The ground was made up of starlight.  
They were underground, candles filled the room.  
There was the phantom melody, fractured notes playing in the background.  
Christine recognized parts of the dream but she had never been here before.  
Her face burned at the memory of the last time she dreamt of starlight.  
Christine waited.  
Erik did not come.

Christine woke up feeling better than she had in a long time.  
He hadn’t come for her but she could dream of him again, of his domain.  
This continued for two more days.

On the third day Christine went back to the studio.  
Her dark circles had lessened and the cut on her face had scabbed over. But the bruising on her face had faded from a dark purple to a sickly mottled green.  
Madame Giry had been about to give Christine hell for missing days of practice so close to opening night but stopped short at the sight of the ballerina’s face.  
After issuing an order for Christine to join the other ballerinas she added on that she would take care of any issues that the choreographer or director had with her absence.  
For that Christine was eternally grateful.

Christine went back to practice.  
The Phantom finally appeared in her dreams and began to instruct her again.  
He never laid a hand on her after that night.  
For that Christine was mournful.  
She missed his touch.

Christine improved further. And before long it was opening night.  
Performing flawlessly Christine forgot herself in her role. She had learned to give herself over to her character, how to fade into the background and stop being herself.

She was perfect.

The Prima twisted her ankle. It was a stupid thing really. Christine wasn’t even there when it happened. According to Meg, who had begun to speak again, the lead dancer was walking home and had slipped on a patch of ice. A stupid mistake that worked immensely in Christine’s favour.

As the understudy she was to play the Lead.  
She was to play Tatiana.  
She was now the Prima Ballerina.  
All the pain, all the practice, years of hard work, nights spent practicing, blisters, bloodied pointe shoes. Every scar that littered her body, every bruise, every scratch, it was all in pursuit of this moment.

Sitting in the private dressing room Christine put the finishing touches on her makeup and tucked the necklace under her costume, she refused to take if off. She was to go on soon. The curtain was about to open.  
As she stood she noticed a scrap of paper on the chair by the door.   
It hadn’t been there before.

She had received another letter.  
Breaking open the wax seal and ignoring the sent of frost she read it’s contents hungrily. This was the first time he had sent her something since her scorning of him.  
 _  
My Christine,  
My Prima Ballerina,  
You have made it.  
I told you that you would play the role of Tatiana; they were fools not to cast you from the start. But you had to improve, and you did.  
If you were a visionary before you are the embodiment of perfection now.  
In your dance your spirit and my soul are one.  
This will be my last letter my love.  
Dance for me once more._

_I remain your obedient servant.  
OG  
_

Christine clutched the letter tightly. His last letter?  
He couldn’t abandon her.  
Not now,  
Not when they had come this far.  
A knock sounded on her door and it opened. Meg stuck her head in. “Christine hurry up the curtain goes up in less than a minute. Pull your shit together.”  
Christine snapped to attention and did just that.  
As the pair rushed to the side of the stage all that was running though Christine’s head was that she needed to make Erik stay. She needed him to take her with him if he insisted on leaving.

_The opening bars of the song came on.  
Christine ran out from the wings and began to dance. _  
She was Tatiana,  
The fairy queen,  
Enchanting and beautiful, manipulating the lives of humans.  
_Penché,_  
With every move Christine wove her tale.  
She was Tatiana.

_Altitude, fouette_  
She was Christine.  
She was the Prima.  
 _  
Echapé, Penché,_

She danced for Erik  
He loved her; he had gotten her this far.  
 _  
Arabesque en tournent_

She danced and in it every hour-spent training was made obvious.  
She looked effortlessly beautiful.

_Glissade, pas de chat, glissade._

She didn’t want him to leave; he was all she had left.  
She would take what she could get.

_Passé, pique, pirouette,_

She begged for him to let her go anywhere he went.  
 _  
Fouette, fouette, fouette_  
.  
Under the stage light, in front of a sold out theatre Christine danced  
And up in one of the boxes, a man clad in black watched his prima dance, a smile on his face.

Christine held her final pose.   
She had done it.  
They had done it.

While doing her reverence Christine searched the crowd for Erik. She didn’t exactly know what he looked like. He had always appeared shrouded in shadow.  
But her attempts were futile; the stage lights were too bright to see.

She went back to the common area to be with other ballerinas. Meg was waiting for her with a grin on her face and dragged her back there to ‘socialize’.

Eventually the theatre had cleared out and everyone had gone Christine was once more the last dancer left.  
She had another show tomorrow.  
Returning to the private dressing room she had a resigned air about her. He had left her. And she was once again alone.

Opening the door Christine froze.

A man stood in the middle of her dressing room, tall and intimidating. He was beautiful.  
Hair darker than anything she had ever seen before was a slicked back revealing cheekbone sharp enough to rival hers.  
He was wearing a three-piece black suit. A white mask covered half of his face  
He looked to be in his early thirties.  
What were truly magnificent about him were his eyes. They were gold.


	6. Chapter 6

“Erik.” She said simply, stating a fact.  
“My love, you were perfect.” He responded with a voice like velvet.  
Christine took a step forwards and he mirrored her movements with cat like grace.  
He kissed her.  
It was like a gunshot had gone off.  
The dreams she had were pitiful imitations of his true self.  
All that was, all that existed was Erik.

Breaking away from her he held out his hand.  
“Join me my love. You are not meant for mere mortals.” Christine reached out her hand but paused.  
Seeing her hesitation Erik continued gently, “ I am king of the night court, if you accept you are to be my queen. Leave all of this behind. You can be free in the realm of the Fae. You will become one of us, you practically already are.”

Christine reached up and touched the masked side of his face.  
Erik froze. “Please don’t” he begged softly. “I don’t think I would bear it if you ran again.”  
Christine met his pained gaze. “I wont run. I promise.”  
Shutting his eyes Erik nodded curtly.  
She slowly pried away the white half mask, revealing the ruined face beneath.  
Twisted skin, blotchy and mangled covered the left half of his face. The deformity pulled the corner of his mouth up into a permanent smirk.  
Christine ran her fingers over his face.  
“I wont run from you again.” She repeated firmly and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

Christine understood. Those weren’t dreams she had experienced, she was in his world. The frost, the letters, the seemingly impossible things that had happened. The Phantom- Erik, wasn’t human. And she didn’t want to be either.  
She didn’t know what would happen if she accepted. But she knew she loved him.

 

Cupping his uncovered face with one hand she moved her free one to lace her fingers through..  
“I accept.” She said “I will take you as you are. I will love you as you are.”  
Erik grinned, his teeth sharp and cruel, the side of his mouth twisting further. but there was no malice in his expression.   
Taking his mask from her he fixed it back in its place before retrieving a ring from the inside of his breast pocket.  
Erik hesitated for a beat and then slid it onto her finger, nearly sagging in relief when he did not resist.  
His smile stretched wider.   
“Then dance with me my love.”  
And she did.

Christine was never lovely, but she was beautiful. Dancing with her Phantom. Christine had left humanity behind.

And on the stage in a now empty theatre two figures danced to a now complete melody.

The female had hair so white it seemed to be spun of metal, her eyes darker than the void. Her lips so red it seemed as if she had a bloody gash on her face, and cheekbones so sharp it was said that one could cut on them. Her skin was littered with galaxies blooming underneath the surface and circuits of veins that glowed with the dark blue of the night.  
Human no longer.

 

Her partner was just as beautiful and deadly. Hair weaved from the sky, fangs for teeth, eyes that matched his queen’s black with his burning gold. A grin graced his face, one that was cold to everyone but his queen. As legend goes he had a voice so charming that both men and women alike would have to deafen themselves lest they succumb to his power. Under the moonlight his mask glowed white. 

Christine and Erik, danced, leaving behind this world in favour of one more beautiful, sharper, and infinitely more fantastical.  
And as they danced the theatre crumbled around them. The place that had taken so much from them both.

Until memories faded her name was known, Christine Daee the Primal Ballerina who danced do beautifully that the Angel of Music claimed her for his own.

 

As the couple faded from the realm of humanity a soldier came home.  
He was bloodied and bruised but breathing.  
His ballerina was the only thing that had kept him sane.  
But the taunts of his men got to him. They dared him to not contact her, to test her love for him. To see if she would remain true.  
He couldn’t have made a worse mistake.  
This was the cost of a soldier’s arrogance.  
It wasn’t difficult to find the letters, the nightgown. In her haste the box was not concealed.

And Raoul De Chagny’s world crumbled around him.

 

 

 

 

_  
The world crumbled It wasn’t as chaotic as you would think. None of the whole will it end in fire or ice? T.S Elliot had it right; it won’t end in a bang but in a whimper.  
Everyone lives in his or her own world; each individual consciousness is its own. “Everyone dies alone.” Is the common saying, what people often forget is that everyone lives alone too? Their paths cross another’s for a moment and then they split off, each individual on their own timeline.   
So when a story opens up with the phrase “ the world crumbled” one might forget to ask a crucial question, “who’s world did it belong to?” _

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first fic. which as I mentioned in chapter 1 was an accidental fic.  
> The subconscious works in weird ways.  
> Anyways let me know what you think xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, and the first piece of creative writing that I've done in literal years.  
> I highly appreciate constructive criticism but please don't be rude, I just did this for fun.  
> Anyways I hope you enjoyed it.


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